


The Sleeping Habits of the Company of Thorin Oakenshield

by justalotoffeelings



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, but then, i got an idea, i swear it was gonna be a happy fic, it was gonna be a happy fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-05
Updated: 2014-12-05
Packaged: 2018-01-07 13:35:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1120454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justalotoffeelings/pseuds/justalotoffeelings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The hobbit thought, perhaps, that observing their sleeping habits might give him an insight into the kind of people they were. As a matter of fact, he was right.</p><p>Or: Bilbo cannot sleep and watches the Company instead</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Beginning

Bilbo liked watching the Company as they slept.

His nights were often restless, especially that first long length of the journey before Mirkwood, when he was still adjusting to life on the road. Frequently he found himself sitting up in the middle of the night, after a root had jabbed him one too many times in the back, or a bad dream had scared him out of his slumber. Then he’d stare for a while at the fire or the stars or the shadowy forest surrounding their camp, thinking wistfully of his warm, comfortable four-poster bed back at home.

Then, at some point during his reverie, his eyes would always stray away from their previous subject and settle on his companions.

At first he observed them shyly, scared that someone would notice him. But then, as he realised that the dwarves on watch rarely, if ever, looked over at him, he began to inspect them with open curiosity.

The members of the Company were so unlike anybody Bilbo had ever met, and speaking with them usually only increased his befuddlement. Often he only ever understood half of what they were saying. The hobbit thought, perhaps, that observing their sleeping habits might give him an insight into the kind of people they were.

As a matter of fact, he was right.

\---

Bilbo found it interesting to note how well the sleeping habits of the dwarves reflected the personalities of their owners. There was perhaps no better example of this than Dwalin. The big dwarf would begin his nightly ritual by laying out all of his weapons beside his bedroll – an activity which took some time, not so much because Dwalin had _many_ weapons (he really didn’t when compared to some of the others) but because he took such great care when he did it. His axes – “Grasper and Keeper,” Dwalin had told him gruffly – were lain a precise three inches from one another, at exact parallels. Then his other weapons, knives of varying lengths and uses, were placed on either side. These were arranged in order of height, from tallest to shortest.

Having made sure all his weapons were nicely lain out, Dwalin would nod to himself, scowl fiercely around the camp, and then, if he wasn’t taking the first watch, stretch out on his bed roll and promptly fall asleep.

Even then Dwalin cut a formidable figure; he slept with his arms folded, fore-arms jutting out from his chest like great protrusions of rock, rising and falling with his slow, steady breathing. His customary glower remained ever-present throughout the night, overshadowed by his heavy eyebrows. Occasionally he shifted his position slightly, but only rarely, so that when he did he gave Bilbo a terrible fright. Most of the time Dwalin could have passed as one of the rocks around the campsite.

Bilbo thought that Balin looked just as immobile when he slept, though much less scary. Balin’s usual spot was beside his brother (the side that was not occupied by a row of weapons), often completely hidden from Bilbo’s sight by Dwalin’s bulk. On more than one occasion Bilbo had not been able to find Balin amidst the bodies of the Company, and had panicked and stood up in the middle of the camp, desperately scanning the area for the familiar shape of the wizened old dwarf. A few moments later he would inevitably notice Balin tucked away in Dwalin’s shadow, snores muffled by his snowy beard.

His sword always lay close by, propped against his pack perhaps, or a convenient rock, within easy reach of his sword hand. On the few occasions when the Company had been roused by the watch (due to a false alarm, or a real alarm), Bilbo had noticed that Balin was one of the first to arm himself. His right hand would shoot out and grasp the hilt of his sword even before his eyes were open. Bilbo knew that, despite his kindly smile and diplomatic nature and white hair, the old dwarf had fighter’s reflexes just as sharp as any of the others. He thought that if Balin was a formidable fighter, even now, at his age, he must have been a truly great warrior in his prime.

In another little corner of the camp Bilbo would be able to see the Family Ur sleeping in a little group. Always easy to identify was Bofur – he slept with his hat on, using it somewhat as a pillow and somewhat as a means of shading his eyes when he lay close to the fire. The raggedy old hat drooped crookedly over his face, supported by the tip of his nose, the ear flaps bobbing up and down every time Bofur shifted. In the gloom of the night it formed an interesting silhouette – which to Bilbo’s eyes looked like some great furry creature that had come to rest on the dwarf’s face. It certainly smelt bad enough to pass for a wild animal. Bilbo had offered to wash it once, when they’d stopped briefly beside a stream (after a particular incident involving Fili, Kili, the ponies, and the river). Bofur had looked horrified and refused adamantly.

“Ya can’t just _wash_ a hat, Bilbo,” he’d said seriously, one hand wavering protectively over his head. “It’ll lose all its _character_.”

Bilbo had refrained from saying that perhaps the hat had a little too _much_ character.

Somewhere in the same vicinity lay Bifur. If Bilbo had thought that Dwalin and Balin seemed immovable when they slept, they were nothing in comparison to Bifur. The wild old dwarf was seldom still in his waking hours; he was always moving, tinkering with little gizmos he stashed in his pockets, picking twitchily at trees and shrubs, fitfully surveying their surroundings with his fierce, dark eyes. But when he slept – Bilbo could barely tell if he was breathing. He lay on his back with his arms by his sides, legs together, stock still for the entire night. Several times Bilbo had been picking his way through the camp (to grab a quick midnight snack, or to relieve himself in nearby bushes) and had not noticed Bifur until he’d almost stepped on him! Often it was only the flash of firelight on the axe remains in the dwarf’s forehead that alerted him to Bifur’s presence. And, while he might look for all the world like a corpse while asleep, at the slightest disturbance Bifur was awake in a flash. Bilbo suspected that if he ever had the bad luck to properly step on the dwarf, there was a very good chance he’d find himself impaled on the end of a boar-staff before he knew what had happened.

Out of all the Company, Bombur was perhaps the easiest to find. Not merely because of his _size_ (which was impressive, and served as a sort of landmark within the camp) but because of his _snoring_ (which was even more impressive, and could be used as an acoustic landmark of a sort). Had Bombur been invisible, Bilbo would still have been able to easily pinpoint the dwarf’s exact location. His snores reverberated around the campsite – which caused quite a disturbance whenever the Company sheltered inside a cave, as you can imagine – finding their way to Bilbo’s ears regardless of how far away he set his bedroll, or how hard he clamped his hands over his ears. In time, however, he got used to the din. In time, the snoring even became a sort of comfort.

It took a long, long while.

Bombur did not take after his cousin when it came to waking up. Once Bombur was asleep, he stayed that way, unless Bifur or Bofur nudged him awake. Bilbo had seen him (and rather admired his ability to) sleep through several alarms, snoring away peacefully while the rest of the Company stood tense as bowstrings until the watch declared the coast was clear. There was, of course, one exception to Bombur’s habit of sleeping through important happenings – he was always the first awake for breakfast.

The only other notable contender for loudest snorer of the Company was Oín. Bilbo rather supposed this was because he didn’t have to hear himself. If any of the other dwarves (excluding Bombur) snored particularly loudly, they’d shock themselves awake. Oín suffered no such inconvenience. Once his ear trumpet was tucked away in his belt for the night he seemed to sink into a happy, oblivious sort of reverie, able to ignore his brother’s complaining without feeling guilty, because he _actually could not hear a thing_. From the way Oín chuckled quietly to himself whenever Gloín threw his hands in the air, having given up on trying to communicate with his brother, and allowed him to sleep closest to the fire, Bilbo suspected that Oín quite enjoyed putting his disability to good use.

Directly beside Oín (rarely closest to the fire) was Gloín. Bilbo rather thought you could find out everything you wanted to know about Gloín from his sleeping habits. Each night the dwarf would take his two great axes and lay them under the pack he used as a pillow.

“One day I’ll pass ‘em on to me son, Gimli,” he’d told Bilbo proudly, on numerous occasions. “He’s still a wee lad now, but give ‘im a few years and you’ll be hard pressed to find a fiercer warrior. Little fire-cracker, that one. Takes after his Ma.”

Having lain down his axes, Gloín would rummage around in his tunic for a moment and pull out a brass locket. The locket was beautiful, inlaid with intricate designs which Bilbo had no doubt held some particular Dwarvish meaning. As to what lay inside the locket – Gloín had shown Bilbo the portraits of his wife and son many times, and spoken extensively about each of them. So extensively, in fact, that Bilbo felt he knew Merla wife of Gloín and her son Gimli like old friends. Each night Gloín would open the locket and, with the light allowing, gaze at the portraits fondly for a few minutes. Then he would slip it back into the folds of his clothing. With this done, there was only one thing left for Gloín to do – he’d pat the money pouch at his belt and, once satisfied that it weighed the correct amount (Bilbo was never sure who he thought would steal from him; Nori was not stupid, after all), he’d settle himself into his bedroll, on his side, back to back with his brother, and go to sleep.

The Brothers Ri were always amusing to watch. The family ambiances were quite evident to even a casual onlooker. They slept all in a huddle, Dori on the outside, Nori on the inside, and little Ori in the middle, although there were occasions where the two older brothers swapped positions. Bilbo supposed these were on the nights when they agreed a swift knife would serve them better on the outside of the huddle than Dori’s brute strength.

Individually, the sleeping habits of the Brothers Ri said a lot about each of them. There was Nori, who slept quite casually with one arm tucked around his pack and a knife in the other hand. Bilbo suspected that the hand beneath the pack also held some manner of lethal object, and was continuously impressed than Nori did not stab himself in his sleep. He was also impressed by the fact that Nori could actually use his pack as a _pillow_ – he knew for a fact that it held at least three Elven candle-sticks, two vases, a salt shaker (from his own home), several pieces of cutlery (of both Elvish and Hobbit make) and a dozen or so knick-knacks he’d picked up from the troll hoard. Perhaps his hairstyle had been designed for maximum cushioning effect? Bilbo always laughed at the thought.

There was Dori, who slept fitfully, and talked in his sleep _continuously_. He didn’t speak very loudly (thank heavens), and only occasionally shouted out (usually a cry of “Nori, no!” or “Mahal give me patience!”). But his unconscious mutterings were of great interest to Bilbo. He felt slightly guilty for eavesdropping so, especially on someone who was not even aware they were speaking, but he reasoned that he couldn’t help the power of his hearing! And anyway, Dori’s chatter was harmless. He carried on one-sided conversations with himself about the price of thread, the latest exotic tea leaves from the south, the latest (probably not anymore) gossip of the town. He chastised Nori for his less-than-lawful activities, complaining that Dwalin came around every other day to try and arrest him (not that Nori was ever at home). He tutted over the state of Ori’s mittens, insisting that they buy him a new pair, no matter how fond he was of the old ones. He hissed bitterly that at least when Nori went wandering they had a bit of _peace_ for a change, and then the very next second muttered that he had half a mind to go out into the wild and drag his fool brother back by the hair before he got himself killed. He talked constantly of how Ori would be a royal scribe one day, maybe even the royal record-keeper, and kindly offered to beat up anybody who was giving Ori trouble.

Alright, not so harmless. Bilbo now quite intimately knew all about the personal lives of the Brothers Ri. He felt _very_ guilty. But he didn’t stop eavesdropping.

Then there was Ori, shy little rabbit-like Ori, who slept curled up in a ball between his two big brothers. Dori and Nori might’ve disagreed on just about everything, but they were in absolute agreement when it came to the safety of their younger brother. Ori seemed resigned to his fate, sighing slightly each night when Dori patted his ready-made bed roll for him to go lie down in, but he obeyed without complaint. (It was clear to Bilbo that he loved his brothers – held Nori in awe, and was grateful for everything Dori had sacrificed to keep him clothed and fed and educated. It was also clear to Bilbo that Ori obeyed more for his brothers’ sakes than for his own.) He slept with his sketchbook tucked under one arm, as a child might hold a beloved toy. His scarf was pulled up around his face, so that his ears and nose stuck out over the top of the fabric rather comically. All in all, Bilbo thought he looked rather comfortable in his little nest of family members and woollen clothing.

And then there was the Line of Durin.

Fili and Kili more than made up for the eerie stillness of the rest of the Company. Bilbo was never quite sure how they could move so far in their sleep, but many times he’d woken up in the middle of the night to find the boys in a completely different location to the one they began the night in. As well as this, their already limited grasp of the concept of personal space seemed to evaporate while they slept. They might _begin_ the night lying nicely side by side, but by the end of it they were inevitably curled up in a tangle of limbs and bedrolls, taking up an incredible amount of space for only two dwarves. It was remarkable, really, how Fili could sleep with his brother’s elbow digging uncomfortably into his ear. He couldn’t help thinking it was a little dangerous, what with Fili rarely bothering to completely unarm himself before he went to bed, but if he ever mentioned it to the lads they would undoubtedly laugh at his concern.

Occasionally Kili would mutter something in his sleep, his brow creasing, and Fili would hum a nonsensical reply. It seemed to do the trick – Kili would always settle back down again. Years of practise as a big brother had honed Fili’s comforting mechanics until they triggered automatically at the sound of his baby brother’s unease. Bilbo thought it rather endearing. _Endearing_. Ugh, he’d grown fond of the rascals despite himself (and despite their constant teasing and joking and pranking). They looked shockingly young when they slept. Bilbo often forgot exactly how young they were – only teenagers, really, though they had both seen many more summers than him. It was disconcerting, and slightly amusing. He would have thought that the extra years would grant them a bit more maturity. But it seemed dwarves matured much, _much_ slower than hobbits.

As far as Bilbo was concerned, it appeared that Thorin barely slept. More often than not he’d volunteer for watch with Dwalin or Balin or Gloín, and settle himself down on a stone or fallen log. There he would sit as still as a dwarf carved from rock, staring into the middle-distance with a faraway look on his face. Sometimes he’d talk with his watch partner, quiet enough that Bilbo was only ever able to pick out a few words. “Ered Luin”, “Dain”, and (unsurprisingly) “Erebor”, were all frequently heard. Sometimes his eyes would sweep across the sleeping forms of his Company. On these occasions Bilbo would quickly duck his head and look busy adjusting his bedroll. With his head down and his hair in his eyes, Bilbo could never be entirely sure – but he could’ve _sworn_ that the surly dwarf’s face always softened as his gaze passed over the sprawling bodies of his nephews.

When Thorin _did_ sleep, he did so lightly. At the first sign of alarm or slightest change in the atmosphere in the camp, he’d jerk himself upright and look immediately for the source of the disturbance. He was always quick to take up arms. Having been reassured it was only a false alarm Thorin would lie back down, but would rarely go back to sleep. Often Bilbo had caught him lying on his back, gazing blindly up at the stars with an intense expression. Rest seemed to elude him as much as it eluded Bilbo.

 _Well, at least I’m doing something productive with my sleeplessness_ , Bilbo thought crossly, discomfort making him unkind. _The heir to the Lonely Mountain seems content with brooding_.

As for Gandalf…well, Bilbo still wasn’t quite sure if the wizard slept or not. He lay down, certainly, but his eyes remained unnervingly open the entire night. Bilbo refrained from staring at him for too long just in case he _was_ awake. And that was only when Gandalf was even _with_ them. Many times he’d disappeared for anywhere between an hour and a day, to scout ahead, or to think, or to get a moment of peace away from “the damnable pigheadedness of these infernal dwarves”. (By which he meant Thorin, of course.) Bilbo could hardly blame him, though it grieved him to see Gandalf go; sometimes he felt that the old wizard was the only sane one in the entire Company, mysterious and meddlesome as he might be.

At last, having spent an hour or so observing the Company, Bilbo would feel true, bone-deep tiredness creeping up on him. Relieved that he might finally get some rest, the hobbit would wriggle down into his bedroll and close his eyes. Then, with thoughts of his strange companions drifting around in his head, Bilbo would at last, _at last_ , go to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not Knowing How to End A Chapter: A Guide by justalotoffeelings
> 
> Seriously though, thanks for reading you guys! I have a second chapter planned, but it's definitely not gonna be as light-hearted as this. You've been warned! All comments/kudos/critiques are HUGELY appreciated, so please let me know if you liked this fic or if there's anything I could improve upon!


	2. The Middle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Their journey takes them across Middle Earth. It's no wonder their sleeping habits change as well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS IS NO LONGER A TWO PART FIC WHOOPSIE-DAISIES
> 
> ((this is also not the sad chapter I promised you, that will come later~))

Things changed after Rivendell.

Not right away, mind you. They set off from the valley of Imladris, and at first they were all in high spirits. Even Bilbo slept easier – something about Rivendell had calmed him, and he felt more confident than he had in a long time. He found himself dreaming of the elves as much as he did of home.

But slowly, the shadow of the mountains crept closer and closer, and a grim air of unease settled over the Company. The mountains looked harsh and uninviting, and the forest felt dark and forbidding, and the nights grew colder the nearer they got to the foothills.

Unconsciously, or so it seemed, their little camps grew smaller. Families huddled together, and everyone shifted towards the fire. Nobody _said_ anything, of course. Bilbo doubted the dwarves would ever own up to their unease. But he could see it in their faces, the set of their shoulders, the number of times one of his companions jolted awake in the middle of the night, looked around self-consciously, and settled back down to sleep. By the time they reached the mountains everyone had grown terse in their apprehension.

Then the real cold set in.

Bilbo felt it worse than the dwarves. His respectable walking clothes did very little to keep out the chill. Bofur (dear, kind Bofur) offered him a spare jacket, but it was much too large and encumbered his walking, which was a definite problem when Bilbo was having a hard enough time keeping up with the dwarves anyway! He accepted it graciously at night, though, wrapping it around himself as an extra layer within his bedroll. _This damnable cold will be the death of me_ , he thought, teeth chattering as he tried grimly to fall asleep. _Not trolls, or orcs, or dragons, but this damnable cold._

It got worse the higher they got into the mountains. Trees became scarce, and shelter as well, so that often they had to make do without a fire (due to lack of firewood or lack of concealment, or most commonly both). The nights became even more miserable, and the camps continuously smaller, and any inhibitions Bilbo might have had about sleeping almost on top of his companions were quickly eclipsed by the need to be _warm_.

And the dwarves were indeed _very_ warm. Bilbo had noticed, much to his confusion, that they seemed to burn with some kind of persistent fever, so that their skin was always incredibly hot to the touch. He mentioned it in passing to Balin, worried that the Company was coming down with some kind of illness, and received a knowing chuckle in response.

“The fire of the dwarves, laddie,” Balin had said. “It’s not just allegorical. We’re made of sturdy stuff, and we carry our own blazes within us, to keep us warm in the coldest and darkest of places. It runs in our veins. So no, not an illness. A blessing.”

_Blessing indeed_ , Bilbo thought, inching closer to Oín.

With the temperature dropping steadily each passing night, Bilbo had little chance of falling asleep right away, and so his habit of observing his slumbering companions became just as pronounced as it had been when he’d first left home. He saw Dori, making do with only one blanket so that Ori could have three. He saw Gloín, meditating over his locket for longer than he used to. He saw Bofur sleeping with his hat pulled right down over his face, all the better to keep his nose warm. He saw Dwalin, sleeping soundly the same as ever, the only one of the Company who seemed not to be bothered even _slightly_ by the cold (if his rolled up sleeves were anything to judge by).

On the coldest of nights he saw Fili and Kili set their bedrolls on either side of their uncle, and inch by inch throughout the night drift closer towards him, till they were nestled right up against his great overcoat with their faces pressed into the fur. Whether this was a pre-meditated strategy or not Bilbo had no idea, but he silently congratulated the lads anyway – of all the dwarves, Thorin seemed to be the warmest. He radiated heat like a furnace! _Probably because he’s so grumpy all the time_ , mused Bilbo. _Well, at least that resentment is useful for something_. If Thorin had been a more agreeable dwarf, Bilbo would not have hesitated to lay out his own bedroll beside him! Pride withered in the face of the cold.

Then there was the goblin tunnels, and Azog, and Thorin almost dying.

Despite all that had happened, Bilbo could get no sleep that night at the bottom of the Carrock. His veins were still afire with adrenaline, and his heart was still full from Thorin’s words, and his whole body was stiff and sore. He settled for sitting and watching the Company sleep, smiling at the sight of Thorin, for once, in a deep slumber. Bilbo thought that Gandalf must have worked some magic on the dwarf. He was usually such a light sleeper, more than ever as of late.

Kili started getting nightmares. Bad ones. Ones that made him sit bolt upright in the middle of the night, his eyes wide open and his chest heaving as he gasped for breath. He scared Bilbo nearly half to death the first time it happened, and before he could even _think_ of going over and comforting the lad, Fili had already sorted it out – he slid one arm around his little brother’s middle and gently pulled him back down, murmuring comforts and reassurances as Kili settled once more into his bedroll. Bilbo could see the gleam of Fili’s open eyes in the darkness. He didn’t close them again until he was sure his brother was asleep.

At Beorn’s house they all slept soundly. Gandalf had assured them they were safe enough inside till morning, and so they all settled down on the hay-strewn floor, clustering together in one warm corner of the room. It was by far the most comfortable sleeping arrangement they’d found themselves in since Rivendell (even if it smelt distinctly of horse hair).

Mirkwood saw an end to the good cheer. The sun quickly took its leave of them, retreating far above the thick canopy to shine upon less miserable folk. Very soon they were wandering in a sort of perpetual twilight, their eyes always searching for a lightening that never came. The air was close and heavy with spores. The water, when they (unfortunately) found it, was black and unhealthy-looking. The fauna itself seemed out to get them. Tree roots would trip them up at every opportunity, and every innocuous-looking, helpfully-placed branch turned out to be covered in tiny spikes or irritating hairs. Bilbo took to walking along with his hands in his pockets, turning his ring over and over again and wishing to see something green and _healthy_.

The nights were almost unbearable. The unsettling silence of daytime Mirkwood was replaced by a symphony of the most disturbing noises Bilbo had heard since the goblin tunnels. Peculiar scrabblings and scufflings could be heard all around their little camp, and horrible wet breathing sounds, and a long, slow rasping as if something was dragging its belly along the floor. All this Bilbo might have been able to endure, if he had at least been able to _see_ something! But the darkness was absolutely solid, and not even the excellent night-vision of the dwarves could make anything out in the gloom. Bilbo mourned the loss of his old habit of watching the slumbering dwarves. Now he consoled himself to lying on his stomach with his head buried in his arms, doing his best to block out the horrible sounds of the forest, and trying _desperately_ to get even a wink of sleep.

Needless to say, he did not get much sleep. And neither did any of the others, if the sounds of constant tossing and turning was anything to judge by. At least poor Kili’s nightmares eased – one generally needed to be _asleep_ in order to have bad dreams.

There was no rest in the Elvenking’s halls, and none at Bard’s house, at least until the dwarves had been discovered by the Master, and then just as quickly befriended. Then they were given comfortable lodgings in the town hall, and told that if they had need of anything they were simply to ask. It was certainly a nice change. Bilbo almost wept at the sight of the little pallet that had been set out in the corner just for him.

The dwarves settled down to sleep quickly that night, exhausted not only by the escape from Thranduil’s dungeons, but by the enormous feast that the Master had put on in their honour. Once the festivities had died down the Company all collapsed onto their respective beds or pallets (or the floor, in Bofur’s case) and promptly fell asleep.

All except Bilbo.

The hobbit felt, in his gut, that this would be one of the last times that the Company got a good night’s sleep for a long, long while. And it was likely the last chance he’d have to quietly observe his slumbering companions for just as long a time. He didn’t know what the next few days would bring, but an opportunity to lie down and rest didn’t really seem viable, no matter how it turned out.

So that last night in Laketown saw Bilbo sitting up in the middle of the night, his arms wrapped around his legs and his chin resting on his knees, watching the sleeping Company in the flickering candlelight.

At first his eyes simply skimmed over the room, taking in the location of his friends, seeing if they were all asleep. But slowly, he found himself focusing on each of the dwarves individually, taking note of their breathing and their slightest movements and the positions they’d lain down in. _They’ve changed_ , he realised with a jolt. _They’ve all changed_.

They weren’t huge changes, for the most part. The casual observer would probably not have noticed them. But for Bilbo, who’d watched them all from the start of the journey, on more nights than he could count, they stood out starkly as reminders of what they’d all been through.

Balin’s sword no longer lay near at hand, but _in_ his hand, lying carefully across his stomach. Bofur’s hat was, impossibly, even _more_ filthy and tattered. Once or twice while Bilbo was watching, Bifur sat bolt upright, stared around for a moment, and then lay back down again – a far cry from the motionless dwarf Bilbo had first observed at the start of their journey. Bombur’s snoring was still as pronounced as ever, but he did not sleep so heavily anymore, and jolted awake quickly when Bilbo accidently stepped on a creaky floorboard beside his head. Oín looked older now, more tired than he had been, and Gloín slept with a deeply furrowed brow, troubled in his sleep by uneasy thoughts. Nori and Dori had drawn their pallets right up to Ori’s in their usual huddle of protection, but the youngest Ri brother no longer slept quite so curled up, and Bilbo thought it was good that at least one of the Company had gained rather than lost something from the adventure.

As for the Line of Durin…Bilbo felt his chest tighten with worry as he glanced over at them.

Kili had been given one of the narrow beds against the back wall, despite his insistence that he was _fine_ , and shouldn’t they let one of the older dwarves take the bed? Now he was curled up on his side, his face pale and his breathing laboured, his injured leg sticking out awkwardly from beneath the sheets. _He’ll be better in the morning_ , Bilbo reassured himself. _The sleep will do him good_.

At the other end of the bed, arms folded and head resting back against the wall, Fili had fallen asleep where he sat guard over his little brother. He looked exhausted, worn out from worrying and running and fighting. His hair, usually so neatly braided, hung untamed past his shoulders. Bilbo had noticed sadly that somewhere in Mirkwood, or perhaps on the river, he’d lost his silver hair clasp – the matching one to Kili’s.

And Thorin? Bilbo sighed quietly to himself, looking towards the window. The leader of the Company stood there, silhouetted against the sky, his eyes fixed on something Bilbo couldn’t see. But it could only be one thing, couldn’t it? _Erebor_. They were so close now, and it was little wonder Thorin was losing sleep over it. How many years had he waited to get this close to the mountain? How many people had told him that he never would? Bilbo empathized, he really did. He just wished that Thorin would get a bit of sleep now and then.

“Time to take your own advice, I’d say, Bilbo Baggins,” he murmured to himself. “Big day tomorrow, no doubt.” He squashed his pillow into a more favourable shape and settled himself down comfortably for the night, listening absently to the snoring of his friends until he drifted off to sleep.

He had no idea that, for once, _he_ was being watched. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh gosh, hi you guys! Sorry this chapter took a while! Somehow this story evolved from a one-shot to a two-chapter fic to a four-chapter fic?? Still not entirely sure how.
> 
> Next chapter will not be from Bilbo's perspective~ ((You can probably guess who's perspective it will be from))
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! Any and all comments/critiques are hugely appreciated! And if you're hanging around for the afore-mentioned sad chapter, you'll not have to wait for much longer.


	3. An Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thorin could not sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> /rises from the abyss  
> I am so so sorry for the horrible wait between chapters. Please accept TWO chapters as an apology.

Thorin could not sleep.

Truth be told, he hadn't tried, but he was far too tense to lie down, and he had the most horrid headache. His mind was a whirlwind of thoughts, thoughts of Erebor, his grandfather, the Arkenstone.

_The Arkenstone_.

He couldn't stop thinking about that damned jewel. Sighing, he rubbed a hand across his eyes and turned to look at his Company. They were all exhausted – he could see it in the set of their shoulders, even as they slept. But it would all be worth it, a million times over, once they had found the hidden door, and made their way into the mountain, and recovered the Arkenstone.

His thoughts had circled back to the Arkenstone, _again_. He could picture it perfectly in his mind’s eye, as if it had been mere days, not decades, since he had seen it last. It glimmered softly in the dark, not reflecting light as other gems did, but emitting its own warm glow. And the colours – such colours as Thorin had never seen before – the purest white and the softest, palest blue, more beautiful even than his sister’s eyes, and the slightest hint of yellow, and the barest blush of pink, seeping in between fractals of blue, like ink, or dye, or blood in the water, and there was so much blood, blood on his hands and dripping into his eyes, and Frerin had stopped breathing hours ago but he refused to let go, and–

Thorin jolted awake just in time to stop himself falling. He took a ragged breath, leaning against the window, trying to bury those old, agonising memories. Now was not the time. In an effort to distract himself he twisted to look at the Company once more. Dori was muttering something in his sleep, face creased with worry. Gloín shifted and almost rolled off his cot. It seemed none of them were getting the restful night they needed.

A slurred whisper drew Thorin’s attention to the bed where his nephews were sleeping. Kili was tossing and turning awkwardly, his injured leg preventing him from lying comfortably. He mumbled another nonsensical string of words and kicked at the blankets with his good leg. Even from across the room Thorin could see the feverish sheen on his brow.

Sitting propped up on the end of the bed, Fili was quickly shaken awake by his brother’s restlessness. Thorin saw his eyes flutter open, taking a moment or two to remember where he was, and why his little brother was in so much pain. Exhaustion, concern and fear flashed across his face in rapid succession. Fili looked so much older than he had only days before. Then he reached across and gave Kili a gentle shake, whispering quiet words of reassurance until he quietened down. Fili sat without moving for a moment, making sure his brother was alright, before letting his head drop back against the wall and quickly drifting back off to sleep.

Thorin felt his heart clench. Kili would have to stay behind in Laketown; Thorin had convinced himself of the necessity of that hours before. He only worried how Fili would react to his decision.

_He’ll understand_ , whispered a voice in his head. _He’s your heir_. Thorin looked away from his nephews, back out the window. Erebor loomed in the near distance, like something from a dream. Of course Fili would understand, he told himself.

He adamantly refused to think of Frerin.

Out of the corner of his eye Thorin saw someone moving about on the other side of the room. _The burglar_. Thorin waited until Bilbo had settled before turning to look at him. The hobbit, too, had changed just as much as the rest of the Company, if not _more_. And Thorin’s opinion of the burglar had changed right along with him. Bilbo still confused him; he was still frustrating, at times. But then, so was every one of his companions. Thorin had grudgingly admitted to himself that the hobbit was invaluable, immediately after Bilbo freed them from the Elvenking’s dungeons.

Now Bilbo was curled up on his cot beneath an enormous pile of blankets, face surprisingly peaceful as he slept.

Tomorrow, Thorin thought grimly, he would prove his real usefulness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright folks, the next chapter is the horribly sad chapter, as promised. I hope it lives up to expectation.


	4. The End

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo might have thought them merely asleep, if he hadn't known better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For extra heartbreaking effect listen to "Goodbye Brother" by Ramin Djawadi. I'm so sorry.

Bilbo stared numbly at the carved stone. _It’s beautifully done_ , he thought hollowly. _Very nice handiwork, considering how little time they had._ The inscriptions stared back up at him, broad strokes engraved into the rock with an unwavering hand, the sharp angles of the Dwarvish runes all but incomprehensible to him. And yet, he knew what they said – Ori had translated for him, whispering the words with a voice hoarse from crying. Now he stood there alone in the echoing silence of the stone chamber, trying to commit the runes to memory lest he should forget their shape as soon as he turned away.

**_HERE LIES THORIN, CALLED OAKENSHIELD, SON OF THRAIN, SON OF THROR, WHO RECLAIMED EREBOR FROM THE DRAGON SMAUG AND GAVE HIS LIFE IN ITS DEFENCE_ **

Bilbo hadn’t understood what was going on, at first. Hadn’t understood why the healers were simply standing there while Thorin’s breath rattled in his throat, why Balin was weeping as if his king was already gone.

He hadn’t understood that Thorin was dying until the dwarf told him himself.

“No, you’re not,” Bilbo had insisted.

Thorin laughed a slow, gravelly laugh, blood staining his teeth. It was the first real laugh that Bilbo had heard from him in a long time. “Master Baggins, denying death,” he said hoarsely. “With stubbornness like that we’ll make a dwarf of you yet.”

“You’re not going to die,” Bilbo said again, getting agitated now. He studiously ignored the shredded mess of Thorin’s chest, looking instead over his shoulder at Gandalf. “There’s something we can do, isn’t there? We can fix this. You can fix this, can’t you Gandalf?”

But the wizard just shook his head sadly, an old grief clouding his eyes. “I have done everything that I can.”

Bilbo had felt his throat closing and his eyes brimming with tears. He tried to say something, to offer some kind of comfort to the dying king, but he could only choke out a strangled “ _No_ ”.

“I’m so sorry, Bilbo,” Thorin murmured, shame and grief and tiredness mingling on his face. “I’m so sorry for everything. I don’t deserve your forgiveness, so I won’t ask for it, but I-” He broke off with a sharp intake of breath. Blood spilled from the corner of his mouth. “I-”

“Shh,” Bilbo croaked, patting him on the hand and giving him a wobbly smile. “It’s alright, Thorin. There’s nothing left to forgive. Water under the bridge, as they say. I just wish- I wish that this could have ended differently.” Tears leaked out over onto his cheeks. “But I’m glad I met you. I’m glad you got your home back. I’m glad I could help. That is more than any Baggins deserves.”

“Oh, Master Baggins, you are so very wrong,” Thorin had rumbled, clasping the hobbit’s hand with what little strength he had left. “You deserve so much more…than that. There is more in you of good than you know, Bilbo, and if more of us…valued a warm hearth and good food above hoarded gold it would be a… a merrier world. You’ll always be welcome…in Erebor’s halls. _Gaubdûkhimâ gagin…bâhel_.” Then he’d taken a great shuddering breath, and closed his eyes, and his hand had fallen away from Bilbo’s.

“Thorin?” Bilbo had whispered, his voice breaking. “ _Thorin?_ ”

A gentle hand rested itself on his head, and Bilbo looked up with tear-blurred vision to see Gandalf standing over him. “I am sorry, my dear hobbit,” the wizard said gently. “He is at peace now.”

Bilbo did not know for how long he sat there, tears flowing silently as he grieved. At last he had turned away and made for the exit, but had only just set foot outside the tent when a chilling thought occurred to him. He almost fell over himself getting back inside, and grasped hold of Gandalf’s sleeve like it was the only thing keeping him grounded.

The wizard’s brow creased in worry. “Bilbo, what-”

“The lads,” Bilbo breathed. “Do Fili and Kili know?”

Gandalf had lowered his eyes, and not said anything, and a cold, hard horror had gripped Bilbo’s heart.

**_HERE LIES FILI AND KILI, SONS OF DÍS THE DAUGHTER OF THRAIN, SISTER SONS OF THORIN OAKENSHIELD, WHO FELL DEFENDING HIM WITH SHIELD AND BODY_ **

He’d stumbled out of the tent, not believing it, not believing that so much had been lost in so few hours. He all but collided with Bofur, leaning heavily on a crutch and gripping his hat (torn, bloody, utterly shapeless) tightly in one hand.

“Tell me it isn’t true” Bilbo had begged of him. “It’s not true, _it’s not true!_ It can’t be true! Not all of them. Not _all three of them,_ Bofur. _Tell me it isn’t true!_ ”

The dwarf’s eyes were already red from crying, and seeing the desperation on Bilbo’s face fresh tears spilled down his cheeks. “They were so young,” he’d said brokenly, looking lost. “They were just _children_.” Bilbo had not been able to hold back a sob, and Bofur had pulled him close, and they’d stood in the middle of the camp for what seemed like years as they wept for their lost friends.

**_MAY THEY SLEEP NOW TO BE AWOKEN AT THE REFORGING OF THE WORLD_ **

He looked like he was sleeping.

With the blood washed from his hair and his wounds hidden by splendid new armour ( _burial armour_ , a small, sad voice whispered in the back of his head), Bilbo could almost imagine that Thorin had simply lain down for a quick nap. The king had never slept much, but when he did he lay quite still, just as still as death, just as still as he was now. It pleased Bilbo to think of him sleeping, _finally_ , of him getting some well-earned rest. Maybe when Thorin awoke he could give Bilbo a tour of Erebor? It was an enormous place, and nobody had the time to show a little hobbit around while there were halls to be cleared and passages excavated and wounds tended to and corpses buried–

The illusion was broken as soon as the marble slab was slid shut over Thorin’s pale face.

When it came to Fili and Kili he could not delude himself. Looking at them, lying next to each other with their hands crossed over their chests, there was no way they could be mistaken for sleeping. The lads had never slept so _still_. Bilbo remembered fondly the sight of them sprawled together in a heap, constantly shifting and stretching, _constantly_ elbowing each other in the face. They’d been so full of life – life and energy enough for the entire Company, and good humour that had lifted everyone’s spirits in the darkest of times.

Their faces were as pale as chalk as they were lowered into their tombs.

Bilbo could barely remember what their smiles had looked like.

The mourning hymns of the dwarves sounded like a lullaby. Standing between Bofur and Bombur, racked with sobs he could scarcely stifle, Bilbo found a strange sort of comfort in the haunting melodies. The deep, resonant voices of hundreds of dwarves lifted and wove together in a chorus of grief and remembrance, echoing around the cavernous hall and thrumming through the undersides of Bilbo’s feet. They sang in Khuzdul, and Bilbo could not understand the words, but something in their tone spoke to him of sleep, and rest, and dreams.

After a time, one by one, the dwarves drifted away, and the hymn grew softer and softer, till only a few dozen voices were left to carry on the song. Then, slowly, these too departed, till only the Company stood watch over the tombs of their friends, and the hymn finally stopped, because none of them had the heart to continue it.

Then, “ _Gaubdûkhimâ gagin_ ,” whispered Oín, and turned away, for there were still many wounded to be cared for.

And, “ _Gaubdûkhimâ gagin_ ,” murmured Dori, whose strength was needed in clearing the upper floors.

They all followed, in their own time, first Bifur and Bombur, then Nori and Gloín, then Bofur and Ori. Finally Balin and Dwalin left together, their grief too raw and private to look upon. They all returned to where they were needed, to the clean-up effort, or the infirmary, or Dain’s temporary council chamber.

But Bilbo, who was not needed anywhere, and who only got in the way when he tried to help, found that his feet refused to carry him from the crypt. So there he stayed, and there he was still, staring down at the inscriptions.

“Well, you’re together, at least,” he said after an age, swiping quickly at his traitorously damp eyes and trying for a sunny smile. “I dare say the afterlife is in for a treat once you three arrive there. Mahal will have his hands full trying to keep you entertained!” His smile faltered, tears welling once more and hanging heavy on his lashes, but he rallied and continued talking. “I wonder if you get to watch what’s going on down here? Do you all sit around with tankards of ale and laugh at us when we trip over?” He narrowed his eyes at Fili and Kili’s tombs respectively, picturing them innocently avoiding his gaze. “I imagine you’ll all be keen spectators during the re-building of Erebor. Thorin will have a thing or two to say about Dain’s plans, no doubt!”

He could practically _see_ Thorin snort and imperiously fold his arms.

Bilbo chuckled, ducking his head. “Sorry,” he said. He ran a toe absently along the gap between two flagstones, thinking about the hundreds of feet that had passed over them since they were first lain. He was so insignificant in the whole grand scheme of things. _So were they_ , murmured the rational part of his mind. _So is everything_. But it didn’t feel like it. They had been warriors, and princes, and would have been kings, and Bilbo still could not quite believe that he had known them.

“I don’t know where to go from here,” he said quietly.

The echoing silence threw his words back at him, whispering his admission again and again.

“I suppose I should return home,” he continued, looking away from the tombs. “I _want_ to, you know. I miss Bag-End, and I miss my garden. I miss green things. I just-” He swallowed hard, not wanting to cry again. “I just don’t know where to _go_ from here.”

As clear as if he were standing before him, Bilbo heard Kili laugh. “ _To bed, Mister Baggins, I should think! You look terrible!”_

_“The rest would do you good,”_ came Fili’s voice, and Bilbo could hear the smile in it.

Bilbo felt it abruptly, the bone-deep weariness that he’d been ignoring so successfully up till now. His eyelids drooped, and he barely stifled a yawn. “I suppose…” he murmured.

“ _Go get some sleep, Master Baggins,”_ Thorin rumbled _. “We’ll still be here when you wake. We’ll be here when you need us.”_

“Alright, alright,” Bilbo said, waving a tired hand in the direction of the tombs. “I’m going. You were always…” (now he _did_ yawn) “…so pushy.”

As he turned away and trudged towards the stairs, he thought he heard a deep, familiar voice humming a strain of the mourning hymn. But the tone was changed, and the tune not so sorrowful, and Bilbo was reminded of home, and hearth, and friends. He tripped up the stairs and through the old halls, making his way towards the front gate, mumbling nonsensically along to the song. By the time he reached the camp he was almost asleep on his feet, and as he fell into bed the voice seemed to continue humming even after he’d succumbed to his dreams.

\---

 ( _The tune stayed with him long after the funeral, and he took it home, and wrote his own words to it, and turned it into a travelling song._ Safe travels, my friends _, he thought as he wrote._ Safe travels on your last adventure _. It felt right, and it pleased him to hear his little cousins singing it. And when he was told, in his old age, that young Pippin had performed it for a Steward of Men, he could not help but feel that Thorin would have laughed_.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you who’ve been reading since the first chapter (originally meant to be a one-shot), I’m sorry! This fic took on a life of its own, and the happiness just…disappeared? I accidentally made the connection between sleep and death – the eternal rest – and then before I knew it I was writing about a funeral. As for the song – if you slow down “All Shall Fade” and lower the pitch, and imagine that it originally had different lyrics and was sung in Khuzdul by hundreds of dwarves, I reckon it would make a beautiful Dwarvish hymn  
> Thank you all for reading. As always, any and all comments/critiques are hugely appreciated!  
> \---  
> Khuzdul Translations (I hope)
> 
> bâhel – friend of all friends  
> gaubdûkhimâ gagin – may we meet again


End file.
